


Just The Tonic

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Baby Hobbits, Brandy Hall, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, The Shire, nursemaid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 16:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6057649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Peregrin Took falls ill and is cared for by the old family nursemaid.  A one chapter piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just The Tonic

**Author's Note:**

> The people and places in this tale were all created by the incredible JRR Tolkien. I have merely brought them out for an airing and hope he will forgive me for the liberties I take with his cherished Peregrin Took.
> 
> This fanfic was born of a long lost role play between Frodo-Baggins-Of-Bag-End and Elwen-Of-The-Hidden-Valley. Many thanks to FEBOBE for allowing me to convert it to a fic.

JUST THE TONIC

 

The Lithe festival was officially over and, in the meadow across the river at Great Smials; hobbits were dismantling the last of the tents and pavilions, their efforts hampered somewhat by the fact that someone had just let in a large flock of sheep. The resulting shouting, bleating and waving of arms was entertaining those reposing upon the lawns that swept down to the river’s edge. On such a bright and sunny midsummer day most of the occupants of the ancient and vast smial were still feeling in festive mood. So all but the most necessary of tasks had been set aside and the lawns and gardens were filled with those taking their ease around picnic baskets overflowing with the remains of the previous day’s festival provender (supplemented, of course, with other goodies from various pantry corners).

The high blue sky was cloudless and no breeze stirred the ancient shade trees dotted about the lawns. The sounds of children laughing and splashing in the shallows could be clearly heard, mingling with the sounds of the antics on the other bank. Others youngsters played tig, or skipped or did any one of the infinite number of games that children create out of their unfettered imaginations. 

All the younger denizens of the smial had been excused lessons and were outdoors. All it seemed, but one. There was no sign of the mischievous youngest of the Thain’s family, Peregrin Took. He was sitting, curled in a chair in the nursery, a large and much loved and battered book showing illustrations from the Shire’s history open in his lap. It showed one of his distant forebears, Bandobras “Bullroarer” Took but, in truth, Pippin was no longer reading.

Beneath his summer bronzing his features were pale, but for two spots of high colour on his cheeks and the curls of his fringe were damp and sticking to his forehead. Indeed, he had pushed back his hair so many times that it stood on end in places. In short, Peregrin Took looked as miserable as he felt.

He glanced up curiously at the sound of fumbling and muttering. Then the door swung open to reveal what appeared to be a large pile of laundry on legs. It walked in the general direction of the bed, stopping short by a few steps, and then paused, as if unsure how to proceed. One foot began sliding about in a wide arc, the other following slowly, as though searching for something. Possibly the foot of Pippin’s small bed?

Pippin would know those grey haired feet anywhere and, of course, he recognised his laundry at once. “Good morning, Margery.” His tone was not particularly enthusiastic, lacking his usual lilt and vigour, but it had an instant and quiet dramatic effect.

There was a loud yelp and the laundry lifted several inches into the air, before landing in a tumble upon the counterpane and surrounding floor. Margery, the eldest of the bevy of staff looking after the nursery suite, was revealed, clutching one hand to her matronly bosom.

“Master Peregrin! You should give a body warning before doing that.” She used her other hand to fan her face. “You near shocked me out of my foothair!”

Pippin considered for a moment. He was unsure what warning he could actually have given before speaking, concluding that touching the hobbitess would have had much the same result, so he simply said, “Sorry, Margery.”

Margery’s eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you outside creating mischief? I know your Cousin Meriadoc is not here but you usually manage well enough on your own.” Margery had been the victim of enough of their joint and individual pranks over the years to know that Pippin would not usually waste the opportunity offered by an extra day without lessons.

Surprisingly, Pippin only blushed, biting his lip shyly at her question. “I wanted to stay inside.” He shrugged. “Didn’t feel like going out.”

“Are you sickening for something?” Margery asked suspiciously as she stepped closer, reaching out to lay a surprisingly soft palm beneath the damp curls on Pippin’s brow. “It’s not like you to sit indoors on a fine day. I was expecting you to be down by the river, hunting frogs to put in your sister’s beds.”

The little forehead beneath her hand was hot. Too hot. Pippin was actually burning up beneath his nursemaid’s fingers, feverish to even an inexperienced hand, much less the hand of a matron who had helped raise two generations of Took children. Even stranger, the usually energetic Pippin did not pull away from her, seeming to welcome the comfort of the cool palm against his burning brow.

“Definitely sickening for something,” Margery announced as she turned back to the bed and began to reassemble her laundry mountain. “Find your nightshirt and get yourself into this bed, young hobbit.” She fixed him with a gimlet glare. “And make sure it’s a clean one.”

“Yes, Margery.” Pippin was quick to comply, carefully returning his book to the shelf before rummaging in a chest of drawers and discarding more than one linen nightshirt before producing a clean one.

If his nursemaid noted the rummaging she only sniffed and concentrated upon her own task of wrangling weskits, breaches and shirts into some semblance of order. Changing swiftly and not without a few more blushes, Pippin folded his day-clothes as neatly as possible before laying them on the shelves of his wardrobe. Climbing into his bed was a little tricky with the laundry mountain still in place but he managed it by the expedient of sitting upon his pillow, tucking his feet beneath the covers and then wriggling his way down. After which he spent some uncomfortable moments trying to pull down his nightshirt, from where it had rucked up about his waist. Once settled he eyed Margery forlornly. 

“Margery? Can you make it better?”

Margery transferred her now perfectly balanced heap of laundry from the bed to the top of Pippin’s toy box and turned to stroke his cheek as she smiled. “Now, haven’t I always?”

Relief brightened Pippin’s delicately angular features and he even mustered his first smile of the day. “Always. Thank you.” He nestled down comfortably in his familiar little bed and Margery shook out an eiderdown, spreading it over her charge.

“Now. Let me take a look at you,” she demanded in a business like tone.

Unbuttoning the only recently buttoned shirt, she swept the fabric aside to examine her small charge’s chest whilst reciting her by now well rehearsed litany of, “Any sore throat, coughing, itching, tummy ache?” Her final question was delivered in a stern voice. “And have you “been” yet today?”

If Pippin was pink faced before he paled now. He had once been dosed with Margery’s liquorice tonic and spent most of the rest of the day on the po. So he nodded hurriedly and replied at once, “Yes, this morning. But my head aches and my tummy too. And my throat is awfully sore.”

Having discovered no rash, spots, blisters or bumps on Pippin’s chest Margery expertly rethreaded the buttons, at the same time making a mental note to replace a missing one. Tucking him in once more Margery took the pointed chin firmly in her hand and turned his face to the light. “Open up and say, ‘Aah’.” Adding almost to herself, “Although why it’s necessary to say such a thing I’ve never understood.”

As baffled as his nurse regarding the necessity of saying, “Aah”, Pippin still did as instructed, revealing a red, swollen throat with just the beginnings of white patches beginning to show in places.

“Well now. If that isn’t a pretty shade of pink. Miss Pervinca has a dress the exact same shade, complete with white polka dots,” Margery commented as she tipped Pippin’s jaw shut with a click. “You have the quinsy,” she announced matter-of-factly. “Tis naught for you to worry about if you do as you’re told and keep to your bed for a few days. Of course, your sisters will have to sleep somewhere else until you’re better but I don’t suppose any of you will be too upset about that.”

Pippin nodded. It seemed there were at least some advantages to being sick. He would not miss the company of three older sisters bickering over ribbons and sashes. Then Margery said the dreaded words.  
“A dose or two of tonic will soon see you right.”

“Tonic?” Pippin’s colour fled in terror at the word. “Must I, Margery? I don’t wish to be ill but . . . must it be tonic?”

Margery looked affronted. She had been dosing the Thain’s youngsters for decades after all, and she hadn’t killed one yet. She sniffed. “Of course you must have some tonic. It’s good for whatever ails you.” Then she noted his pallor, relenting as she often did with this lad. “Maybe after a sup of something nicer, though. When did you last eat, Young Master?”

Pippin looked up at her with his most piteous expression. It had been known to melt the hearts of many an under cook. “First breakfast this morning. I had some tea and buttered toast. Then I fell asleep in my chair through second breakfast and when elevenses came I didn’t feel well enough to go to the noisy dining room because my head was hurting too much.”

Margery was positively scandalised. “Good gracious, lad! Tis a wonder you haven’t wasted away to nothing!” She bustled about, distributing clean laundry between drawers and wardrobe. “I’ll fetch you a bite to eat, then you’re going to have some tonic and a nice long nap. Nothing better for a sickly hobbit than food and a good nap,” she asserted.

Relief washed through Pippin at the prospect of not having to face Margery’s infamous tonic on an empty stomach. He snuggled down, fever bright green eyes watching, their interest lulled by the reassurance of the familiar. “Food and a nap sounds so good,” he murmured.

“Now I know you don’t feel well,” Margery noted as she put away the last shirt, pulling two grubby nightshirts from the drawer at the same time. “Never thought I’d hear Peregrin Took want a nap when there’s sunshine to be had.” Her face took on a quizzical expression as she advanced upon him once more and Pippin tried to shrink beneath the covers. He could not escape Margery’s fingers however. “Let me just take another peep at that throat.”

“No. I don’t feel well . . . “

But Margery’s fingers were relentless and his mouth was opened wide, once more revealing a red, swollen and slightly patchy maw. Margery examined it thoughtfully for several moments before releasing him and turning for the door. To herself she muttered, “Not Pervinca’s dress. But I recognise that shade of pink.” Shaking her head she departed in search of food and the dreaded tonic.

For his part, Pippin snuggled down, looking decidedly relieved for the short reprieve and feeling more comfortable than he had for some time, curled up warmly beneath the eiderdown and blankets. He was not alone for too long, however. The door swung open again within minutes to admit not just Margery but a file of serving lasses, who moved about their tasks silently beneath her keen eye. It was the work of minutes to make up a cheery fire and drag Margery’s favourite rocking chair into the room. The chair and a capacious knitting bag were placed at Pippin’s bedside.

“Let’s get you settled properly so you can eat,” Margery stated as she raised Pippin’s shoulders like a fauntling . . . much to the amusement of one of the younger serving lasses who was but a few years older than Pippin.

For his part, Pippin haughtily ignored the lass, meekly cooperating with Margery and even managing a, “Thank you”. After all, his Mama and Papa, with Margery’s assistance, had brought him up to mind his manners, ill or not. Margery let the lass know, by looks alone, that her manners were woefully inadequate. The young maid blanched, thrust her tray at Margery and made her exit as swiftly as possible, leaving Pippin alone with his old nursemaid once more.

“There now.” Margery pushed a final plump pillow at Pippin’s back. “Let’s see what you make of this tray.” She set it across Pippins legs and lifted various lids and covers to expose the contents to the young lad’s increasingly eager gaze.

A search of the luncheon-preparations and some special dishes for Pippin alone, known to be his favourites during illness, had produced a trayful of soft and liquid treats fit for. . .well, a Thain's son! There was strawberry milk jelly. . .creamy chicken and mushroom soup. . .soft mashed potatoes, thinned with warm milk. . .stewed apple. . .a coddled egg in its own special cup. . .buttered toast fingers . . . raspberry jam. . .peppermint and ginger teas.

Pippin looked immediately pleased, though a little tentative. "I suppose I could try a bit," he decided, considering. "It does look so awfully nice." He selected one of the buttered toast fingers, spreading it delicately with raspberry jam, and bit into it, chewing and swallowing with great care. Even so he was forced to hide a wince as it still scratched his sore throat. There was no hiding from Margery, however. In a trice the toast was gone and Pippin found himself holding a cup of soup instead.

“Silly girl. I told her not to put toast on the tray,” Margery announced with another sniff.

Pippin looked positively mournful. “But Margery, why can’t I have toast? It’s only a little bit . . . and the raspberry jam made it go down easier . . . “

“Nonsense,” his captor replied, assertively pushing the hand holding the cup to Pippins lips. “No place for toast on a tray for someone with quinsy. Don’t know what they’re teaching those lasses nowadays.”

Pippin’s expression was nothing short of lost-your-best-friend mournful, but he accepted the soup, sipping dutifully at first and then with greater enthusiasm as he recognised the familiar taste of mushrooms. Soothed, he settled down to showing some real interest in the tray.

Assured that her charge intended to consume at least some of the nourishment and was no longer in imminent danger of slipping through a crack in the floorboards, Margery settled into her rocker and hefted the huge knitting bag onto her lap. “I don’t know what’s got into these lasses, nowadays. They’ll be wearing breeches and cutting their hair next. Half of them wouldn’t know how to clean a smial if they had one. And goodness knows what they’d do with a frying pan.”

Pippin was still a youngster but he was old enough to know when to keep silent. There were some opinions expressed that one did not argue about with Margery (which usually boiled down to not arguing with any of Margery’s opinions). Instead, he began to alternate mouthfuls of mashed potato and apple sauce. He knew that Margery and his mother would normally protest such combinations but hoped to get away with it by playing the “sick” card. So far he seemed to be succeeding.

Keeping one eye on her charge Margery rummaged in the depths of her bag, eventually producing several yards of a horrifically bright green scarf, wrapped around a pair of large wooden knitting needles. She proceeded to unravel them and rummaged deeper to locate a fresh ball of matching wool. “I have sent word to your lady mother and she will no doubt be along later to see how you’re doing.” Threading the luridly coloured wool about her fingers Margery began to knit, the clack of her needles merging with the squeak of her rocker.

“Mama will come?” This brightened Pippin at once and he turned from apple sauce to coddled egg. Attacking his food with a little more gusto. “I should like that.”

“Then you’d best finish that egg, Pip lad,” Margery warned, the stern tone of her voice softened somewhat by the childhood endearment of his abbreviated name. “Eggs are good for you. . . Although too many can be binding,” she added sagely.

Pippin blushed but continued to eat. “Margery . . . how long will I have to stay in bed?” he ventured at last. “Will I be ill for very many days?”

Margery tutted as she paused to pick up a dropped stitch and knit it in. “How long is a ball of wool?” she replied cryptically. “It depends on how good you are and on how bad the sickness is.” The scarf draped over her knees to pool about her feet like some giant lurid snake.

Pippin considered her statement. After all, one could always measure the yarn in a ball of wool but he determined that to say so would come under the category of ‘arguing with Margery’. An occupation he did not feel up to at present. Having finished the egg, he turned attention to the strawberry milk jelly, a favoured treat, ill or well. Selecting a berry he dipped it into the jelly and swirled, before biting into it with relish.  
“I promise I’ll be good, Margery,” he offered when his mouth was empty again. “I promise to be very good.”

Margery’s bushy grey brows rose, just a wee bit. “Peregrin Took, I’ve heard that particular piecrust promise before. But I dare say you mean it at the moment and that’s all I’ll get.” The words could have been harsh, but for the twinkle in her brown eyes. She nodded towards the tray. “Don’t forget the ginger tea. It will help with the fever." Dumping her knitting on the floor, Margery started to rummage within the several capacious pockets secreted amongst the folds of her voluminous skirt and pinafore.

All too aware of what was about to come, Pippin gave her his best innocent smile . . . and a beautiful smile it was too, young and positively angelic and sweet, where it not for the knowledge of his history. Nonetheless, he dutifully began to alternate bites of strawberry treat with ginger tea, as instructed. “May I save the peppermint tea to wash down the tonic,” he begged.

“Aye,” Margery replied distractedly as she stood, pushing her hands ever deeper into her pockets before finally rooting out a brown glass bottle with a loud, “Aha! There you are.”

The sight of the bottle made Pippin decidedly nervous and he shrank into a small bundle, looking very much afraid. He clutched the cup of peppermint tea close but, after a deep breath, his green eyes gazed steadily, unflinchingly, up at his nurse.

“There now, Pip lad,” Margery coaxed. “You’ve had Margery’s tonic before and it’s always done you good.” She searched the tray, finally locating an almost clean spoon, and wiped it on a napkin with one hand, while she shook the bottle so vigorously with the other that her ample bosom jiggled alarmingly and the floorboards beneath her feet began to creak in protest.

Pippin sat, wide-eyed and half ready to flee in terror as he watched the ritual, like a rabbit before a snake and his fingers clutched, white knuckled, about his cup of tea. Then he watched in horror as the cork was worried free and Margery tipped the open neck of the bottle over the spoon.

The spoon waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Finally a thin dribble of thick, dark red, ‘almost liquid’ descended into the bowl of the spoon and the room was suddenly permeated with the undeniable smell of a bag of very old, very rusty nails.

That was enough for Pippin. He bent over his cup of peppermint tea, senses reeling. “Margery . . . I think I . . . may have to be sick,” he mustered at last, choking out the words with no semblance of a lie, his face beginning to turn as green as Margery’s knitting.

At once the nursemaid’s voice took on the cadence of one used to bringing a roomful of fauntlings into line. "Peregrin Took, don't you dare bring back all that food. Your Mama did not raise you to be so wasteful." She reached forward to pinch the small button nose, bringing the spoon to his lips. "One swallow and it's gone."

Margery's voice had none of the desired effect – Pippin was too far gone. The pinching of the little nose, however, was another story. If he wanted to continue breathing he had to open his mouth and at least with his nose held he could no longer smell the offending ‘almost liquid’. So he screwed his eyes shut and opened his mouth wide.

“That’s my brave Pip lad,” Margery crooned . . . although her eyes rested for a moment on the pink maw before she inserted the spoon. “Just one swallow and then there’s your nice mint tea and a hug if you want it.”

“Pippin swallowed quickly, the corners of his mouth turning down in a quite involuntary response as the spoon was removed and his nose released. Taking a huge gulp of the sweet peppermint tea at once, he then sought the comfort of his nurse’s expansive embrace.

Well aware that her tonic had the ability to make a grown hobbit cry, Margery was used to dispensing her own particular brand of sugar to her younger charges. The feather mattress dipped as she settled at Pippin’s side, gathering him under her wing. If Pippin had been expecting soothing words of endearment he was destined to be disappointed, however. "Jumper! I knew that pink reminded me of something. Tis a shame you grew out of that jumper I knitted you when you were a babe. I must get some more wool and knit you another."

Pippin was, at least, consoled for a moment . . . though the mention of the jumper filled the bright green eyes with dread. 

When he was expected, after his mother had birthed three bonnie lasses, everyone just assumed that the fourth would be a lass too. That pink jumper seemed to grow with him for years, stretching with every wash until Pippin himself had been forced to ‘encourage’ it to fall apart. He decided to conceal his discomfort at its mention, however, preferring to rest in Margery's embrace for as long as she would allow. Perhaps there was some wisdom in that little head after all.

“Although maybe you’re a bit old to wear pink now,” Margery added. In the way only a nursemaid could manage Margery held Pippin close with one hand whilst moving the denuded to tray to rest upon the seat of her rocker. As she did so she spotted the somnolent green woollen serpent curled upon the floor. “Oh, I’ve just the colour to go with your eyes,” she declared proudly.

Relief brightened her charge's gaze . . . green serpent or no, it wasn’t pink. His belly filled, Pippen snuggled comfortably close, sighing contentedly at last. "Margery, I love you," he murmured as he drifted into sleep.

Margery kissed the crown of Pippins golden curls distractedly as she estimated the amount of wool needed for his new jumper.

END


End file.
